Hard Faith
by perspective21
Summary: A meditative story about the endurance of the human spirit. Beth/Daryl-centric along with various other characters. Post-prison, S4. BETHYL.
1. After

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to AMC's Walking Dead or any of the characters. I own only my imagination.**

**Summary: Just two people at the end of the world, thrown together, alone together. T rating (for now), during S4, post-prison. BETHYL.**

...

1\. _After_

_We all got jobs to do_, Beth remembers her father telling her. That night in the prison, her home, when things seemed like they were falling apart, like they couldn't get any worse.

She sure knew better now. It could always get worse. And usually does, especially when you least expect it to. She wants to scream and cry, throw a tantrum right there next to the dying fire, kick up the dirt with her feet and bring the walkers down upon her. Daryl probably wouldn't even flinch. Just leave her or knock her over the head or something. Tell her to get her shit together. Tell her to grow up.

Instead, she just folds her arms over her knees and puts her head down. She watches the cooling embers flare up and dim again, rhythmically, quietly. It would be so easy just to give up now. To join the hungry parade of the dead. But when she closes her eyes, Beth sees her father in his final moments clearly. His face in their direction, she and Maggie, his eyes drinking them in, but his expression calm, steady, accepting.

_You're not gonna quit now_, he'd tell her, _you've still got a job to do. We all got jobs to do. And right now, yours is living._

…

It's getting late, the sun has already begun to dip behind the trees, and before she can move, Daryl is up and stamping out the remains of their campfire, then moving on to check the lines.

Beth pulls out a couple of thin blankets she'd hastily packed on their last scavenge and lays one down for herself, smoothing it out under the small makeshift tent.

"Here, it's my watch tonight," she holds the other one out to Daryl as he makes his way back over.

His eyes flit over to her briefly before he drops down heavily away from her and punches his bag around like a pillow before laying his head down. He doesn't respond. She's nobody to him, just tagging along.

"Oookay."_He's angry,_ she reasons as she packs the blanket back into her bag. _Not at me, at everything._

She understands. She gets it, but she knows he doesn't think she does. To him, she's just the kid who doesn't know shit about this world or any other world. But she's here with him and that's enough for now.

They lay on their backs, staring up at the stars peeking down on them from in-between the tree tops.

"Everything finally seemed just normal for a while, ya know?" Her soft voice drifts over to him, wavering in the silence.

"Ain't nothin' ever been normal." _That's the real truth_, Daryl thinks. And before she can say anything else stupid, he turns his back to her.

There's no such thing as normal, that's the real truth.

...

**A/n: **This will have multiple chapters. I'm open to suggestions about where you guys want the plot to go or any ideas for their journey together.


	2. After, Part 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to AMC's Walking Dead or any of the characters. I own only my imagination.**

**Summary: Just two people at the end of the world, thrown together, alone together. T rating (for now), during S4, post-prison. BETHYL.**

**A/n: **Going kind of slow right now, but it'll pick up.

…

1.2 _After_

…

She said she don't cry no more but some nights Daryl hears her. When she thinks he's asleep and it's her turn to watch, the muffled sobs make their way over to him. But it ain't Beth's cryin' that keeps him awake. Truth is, he doesn't trust her enough to let her take a full watch. She ain't got the skill for it. He's always so damn tired but he knows the one time he starts to get a good night's rest will be the night the biters close in on them. All because of her damn cryin'.

…

He'd be better off on his own, he knows that for sure. He thinks about leavin' her often enough. Just disappearing into the woods while he's on the hunt for dinner. But he knows that's a right dick move, even in this world of the evil and dead.

He don't ever consider it for more than a minute or two at a time. And when he does, he remembers her singin' to Lil' Asskicker, remembers how grateful Rick was for Beth takin' care of her. Daryl remembers how she's been a part of their fucked up group of survivors from the beginning, even in her own small way.

…

Most of all, Daryl remembers Hershel. He remembers how attentive Hershel was to Beth. At first tryin' to protect her from the truth, then tryin' to help her adjust to it, to help her find a place for herself in the end of the world.

He thinks of how much of dumbass she is for being so cheerful and hopeful all the time and then remembers Hershel taught her to be that way. He don't know why. If it was just her out here, she'd be one of 'em by now and ain't nothin' redeeming in that.

But he remembers how Hershel kept them all together by keepin' Rick together. Hershel made sure they weren't just surviving, he made sure they remembered that they had a purpose and responsibilities to each other. He made 'em a family of sorts.

And a part of Daryl thinks that's real fucked up cause it wouldn't have ever lasted, not in this world, and it didn't. All it did was just make 'em hope, and dream, and forget about the danger, avoid the warning signs, let their guard down, and leave 'em vulnerable.

But then he remembers that bein' a part of their fucked up group was the only time he ever felt _accepted _and _valued _and worth a damn. It was the only time he ever felt _important _and _needed_. Goddamn, he's become such a little girl talkin' about _feelings _and shit.

And he can still see the blade slicing down into Hershel's neck, the blood staining him red, pourin' out of him in a current, but his eyes calm and steady, watchin' Beth, watchin' Maggie.

Daryl thinks he might've been tryin' to tell 'em somethin', but he don't know what. All he knows is that a man like that don't fear death.

…

So he won't leave her, cause Hershel ain't here to take care of her anymore and he wishes he could've done somethin' for him. Daryl don't really pray or anything but he thinks that wherever Hershel is, he might like it if he knew Beth was okay. He kind of resents it though. He don't see why she's worth it. She ain't gonna make it after all. None of them are.

…

Daryl can't hear much of her cryin' anymore but he gets up anyway and grabs for his crossbow, startling her.

"You tryin' to get us killed with all that noise?" he bit out gruffly, avoiding looking directly at her while she hastily swiped at her cheeks.

He hears Beth make some sort of apology but he don't really listen to it. Just sets up for the night at the base of a wide oak tree, hopin' the dawn arrives quickly.

He thinks about how stupid they all were and how he don't know what to do now that's it over.

_Just keep on walkin',_ he tells himself, _that's all there is to do now. Just keep on._

…

**A/n: **If it seems like Daryl isn't really fond of Beth, it's nothing personal. Clearly, he's still processing the attack at the prison.


	3. Now

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to AMC's Walking Dead or any of the characters. I own only my imagination.**

**Summary: Just two people at the end of the world, thrown together, alone together. T rating (for now), during S4, post-prison. BETHYL.**

…

2\. _Now_

…

"We can track 'em."

.

"We _should_."

.

"I _know_ they're out there, Daryl."

.

"Retrace our steps back to the prison, we can hide out, find a trail, follow it."

.

"Daryl!"

.

"Are you even _listenin' _to me?"

.

"Fine, I'll just go by _myself_."

"You ain't gunna do nothin'."

"I'm goin' back, Daryl. I know somebody 'sides us had to get out. I _know _it."

"You don't know _nothin'_. And we _ain't_ goin' back there."

"I'm _goin' _back, Daryl. I'm goin'. What else have we got to do? Keep walking? Keep hiding? Keep killing walkers? What?"

.

"Damn-it, Beth!"

.

"Girl's gunna get us fuckin' killed."

…

"What'd you do before all this?"

"Nothin'."

"Nothin'? Well, you had to do _somethin'_."

"I didn't do _shit_. Ain't gotta tell you _shit_."

.

"I was gunna go to college, I think. Maybe study English, maybe music. Maybe help animals like Daddy."

.

"I wanted to be a singer. Big and famous, ya know? Not like Lady Gaga or nothin'. Me, just this nobody farm girl with a piano."

.

"That's how stupid I was. Now it don't mean nothin'. We're just here: walkin', killin', survivin'. No difference between us and the dead."

.

"That's why we gotta keep lookin' for 'em, Daryl. I have to find 'em. I can't just believe they're gone. This can't just be it. Daddy said-"

"Your daddy ain't here no more. He's dead, gone, _nowhere_. That's all there is now. And now you got us on the big goose chase and all its gunna get us is _killed_. You're livin' up in the clouds, blind to the shithole around you. Take a whiff, girl! That's all we're in now; a big ole' pile of _shit_. You and me? We're gunna die in this shitfield chasin' your little girl fantasies!"

"You think you got it all figured out, Daryl Dixon, but you're just walkin' 'round blind like the rest of us. You may as well just lie down and die, you act like you want it so bad. Just _die_ in this shithole then! I ain't just survivin' no more, I'm tryin' to _live_!"

.

"You gunna cry some more now? Thought you didn't cry no more? That's all you're good for anyway, just to sit there and cry like a lil' baby."

"Screw you, Daryl. _Screw_ you."

.

"Shut that up, you hear that?"

.

.

.

"Maybe we can wash up in the next town we get to."

"That you I been smellin' all day?"

"Well, you don't smell too pretty yourself."

"Whatchu' talkin' about? I smell like roses."

"You smell like _ass_."

"How you know what ass smells like?"

"What are you, four?"

…

**A/n:** Thought it'd be neat to try some straight dialogue between Beth and Daryl.

**Shout-Outs: **Thanks to **Bre27812** and **InTheVast** for being the first readers to review my story. I appreciate the feedback. :)


	4. Hope

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to AMC's Walking Dead or any of the characters. I own only my imagination.**

**Summary: Just two people at the end of the world, thrown together, alone together. T rating (for now), during S4, post-prison. BETHYL.**

**A/n: **I don't have a Beta so there are probably going to be errors here and there. I do value spelling/grammar/etc. so I reread my work quite often, but it's so easy for the small things to fly under the radar. I apologize in advance and will fix them when I see them.

…

3\. _Hope_

…

Day 823

_Been out here eight days now. Just me and Daryl, after the prison. Seems like it's been the longest eight days of my life. I guess time went by a lost faster at the prison. It's funny cause livin' at the prison almost made me feel like we had all the time in the world. It wasn't about just survivin' anymore. We were makin' a home for ourselves, startin' fresh. _

_Just a week ago I was talkin' to Maggie about what to cook for supper, askin' Rick how the garden was gettin' on, and washin' out nappies for Judith cause we were almost out of diapers. But I can't think like that anymore. I'm more aware than ever of the clock tickin' even though bein' out here feels like forever. Like we're just gonna keep on walkin' on into eternity. _

_Daryl hasn't said much since I convinced him to help me track the others. He grumbles a bit every now and then, but I know it gives him somethin' to do 'sides be angry. _

_Sometimes I feel so alone. I haven't got used to that feelin' yet. I just wanna know Maggie and Glenn and the others are okay out there. I know I've always been the one they all look out for, but now I just wanna look out for them. Just see 'em whole and in one piece. And alive. I miss Daddy so bad. It hurts so much just to think about it. I know it's awful, but I think if he'd just been bit or gotten sick in the cell block that it would've been a better way to go. _

_We got evil on all sides of us. The dead walk and the living kill. I guess there isn't anywhere safe, and hardly anyone to trust. But Daddy's in a better place now. I have to believe that. That's he somewhere tryin' to keep us all safe._

_I'm glad I have Daryl. I guess that means I'm not so alone. Even though he don't talk much, I wouldn't want to be without him. He's all I got now. Sometimes I just wanna know what he's thinkin'. Does he ever think about leavin' me? Is he glad he ain't by himself too? Am I just slowin' him down? Just another kid to watch out for? _

_I wish I was as strong as Daryl. Without him, I probably wouldn't have even lasted this long. Not on my own. But I'm tryin' to learn. If Daryl can teach me to survive, maybe we'll have a chance at livin' again. _

_I think my birthday's come and gone. It's hard to keep track of when this all started and how long it's been. Before all this, I thought bein' eighteen would be like bein' an adult. And bein' an adult would mean havin' a plan and a future and knowin' how to take care myself and maybe someone else. But now I don't think I've ever been more scared. I'm glad I got Daryl though. He's strong, but he ain't so tough on the inside. I know he can be soft. And sweet. Always lookin' out for everyone else, even though he could probably make it without us. Without me. _

…

"Did you read that sign at the tracks, Daryl? Terminus." Beth asked after she'd followed him back into the cover of the woods.

"Yeah, whutta 'bout it?"

He stepped quickly and quietly, like a trained hunter. His eyes narrowed in, glancing carefully back and forth as he led them to some cover.

Beth chewed her lip as she followed behind him.

"Well, I guess that's where the tracks led." Daryl didn't respond, so she went on, "Maybe that's we're they're headed. The ones who got out too."

"Maybe," he grunted, relaxing the arm that held the crossbow as he came to a stop.

"Then we could follow 'em. We might even catch 'em. What if they're there?"

Daryl turned to face her now. Beth's eyes held his, a shimmer of hope there.

"We ain't goin' there, Beth. You want it to be Woodbury all over again? Can't you see we can't trust nobody?"

It was the only reasonable response, Beth knew that. She watched him kneel and dig around in his pack. His crossbow now resting close to his knee. Even with his back turned to her, Beth saw he was still alert, guarded. Like he didn't even trust her.

She sat down with him and set to digging, preparing the fire to cook the squirrels he'd shot earlier. Daryl moved on to setting up the noise trap around the tight cluster of oak trees they'd come to.

His dirty hands worked steadily, easily, automatically. Just like he worked the crossbow. Like he was made for it. This life. Easy as pie. Beth watched the muscles in his arms contract and relax with each movement and thought sitting here right now, building this fire, watching him work; well, it almost felt like peace.

A sudden wave of gratitude washed over her; her lips curved up into small smile. How lucky she was to be here with this man.

Her eyes left him to finish her task but then his large hands engulfed her tiny ones around the small flame and he was blowing gently on the fire, helping her bring it to life.

Beth took one of the squirrels and began to clean it while he did the other one.

"I trust you."

Daryl glanced up at her and then worked the knife roughly against the meat.

"That's different."

Beth sighed but smiled and continued skinning.

"We could follow in the woods, close to the tracks, scout it out, ya know? If we come to it, we watch it. Wait and see if we can spot someone we know."

She forced the carcass on a short stick and placed it over the fire.

"I'm not sayin' we gotta reveal ourselves or anything. We'll play it safe, but at least it's somethin'."

Daryl had finished too and began chewing his thumb, thinking it over.

The flames crackled as they licked up toward the squirrel and soon the gamey smell of roasting meat began to rise with the heat.

She knew before he answered that he was going to say yes.

"We keep our distance. That's the rule. We don't talk to no one. If we get there, you don't go runnin' off; you do as I say." Daryl relented, looking Beth steady in the eyes, still managing to keep the edge in his voice.

Beth grinned.

"I promise, _Mr. Dixon_."

Even though he called the shots, sometimes it felt like she was the one leading him. 

…

**A/n: **Started out with Beth's journal entry and then moved on into the story.

**Shout-outs: **thanks to **SquishyCool **for following and reviewing. J


	5. Searching

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to AMC's Walking Dead or any of the characters. I own only my imagination.**

**Summary: Just two people at the end of the world, thrown together, alone together. T rating (for now), during S4, post-prison. BETHYL.**

…

4\. _Searching_

…

"Left one. Yellow dress. Right eye."

Daryl sighed and stood.

Beth heard the arrow zip through the air, heard the bow string vibrate violently.

Daryl looked down at her and extended his hand, an expectant look on his face, a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"Come on! You can't even tell from here. I ain't fallin' for that." Beth scoffed and pushed herself to her feet, dusting the butt of her jeans off loudly.

"See for yourself."

Beth glared at him.

"I _will_." She raised her chin and stomped off toward the dead walker in a huff.

Left one, yellow dress, right eye.

_Damn him_, Beth thought as she stared down at the rotting corpse. The arrow was lodged deep in the right eye socket, dark red blood oozing around it.

"Fork 'em over."

She jumped, not expecting to see him there, so close, peering over her shoulder. It was almost absurd.

She wanted to laugh. Instead Beth scowled, shook three peanuts out of the Planter's package, and thrust them in his direction.

Daryl immediately tossed his head back and threw them in his mouth, chewing loudly.

"It ain't fair, you're goin' through my whole bag!"

"A deal's a deal. You's the one started this game anyway," he said and casually pushed his boot down on the walker's head, pulling his arrow free.

"'Sides, it's just peanuts."

Beth huffed. He was looking at her funny, long greasy bangs in his eyes, like he had something else to say but was holding it back.

"Every nut counts, Daryl," she stuffed the package back in her pocket and glanced up just as he slid the arrow back into the quiver.

His eyebrows raised and she gasped in understanding.

"Stop bein' nasty!" She felt her skin flush red, but thankfully, Daryl just turned from her with that funny look in his eye again and started walking.

Why was he looking at her like that?

She chewed on her lip and studied him. He had his crossbow slung casually over one shoulder, the other arm hanging at side.

Something was different though.

There was a carelessness to his step. He walked slower, one hip a little tilted off to the side.

Beth clenched the strap of her bag and trailed after him.

His long hair floated up and away from his head in the breeze.

Suddenly it dawned on her.

That was a man's walk. An _arrogant_ man's walk.

She ran to catch up with him, to accuse him.

"You're _laughin' _at me!"

...

Daryl scanned the shelves, looking for anything useful. Most of the stock had been wiped out and what was left was generally no good.

He grabbed the last three packages of BC powder and turned to go down the next aisle. His eyes caught on a stand of magazines and he stopped.

He usually didn't pay much attention to these things but there it was right in his face.

A quick glance up told him Beth was still right outside the door of the convenient store, checking for gas cans or some other thing.

Daryl looked back down and grabbed the magazine, an old March 2010 issue of _Maxim_.

The blonde girl on the cover, Kaley Cuoco, an actress he barely recognized, tugged down on a pair of cut-off, blue-jean shorts provocatively.

He thumbed through to the cover story, glancing back up quickly.

It'd been a long time since he'd seen a woman like this. Blond hair cascading down over one shoulder, healthy curves in all the right places, staring blatantly at the reader with that get-over-here-and-fuck-me look.

He felt his jeans get a little tight and thought about stuffing the magazine in his pack, but a high-pitched, blood-curdling scream split through the air, making him drop the magazine.

A second later he had his crossbow up and ready as he hurried to the front of the store.

He didn't see Beth anywhere.

"Beth!"

The road ahead was deserted but he looked quickly in both directions.

"Beth!"

He turned back to the store, scanning the area, his heart pumping wildly.

"Beth!" He called again.

A lone walker ambled around the side of the building, snarling hungrily with its arms forward. Daryl quickly took it down.

Then he saw it.

Her bag, laying there right next to the biter he'd dropped.

His throat went dry. His feet seemed stuck to the hot asphalt. Blonde hair, matted. Dirty jeans. Corpse seemed fresh.

Daryl forced himself forward and tried to remember what Beth had been wearing today.

Was it the gray sweater? The green shirt?

He let out a breath as he stopped in front of it.

Not her.

Bow raised, Daryl slowly turned the corner.

Nothing.

Moving forward cautiously, he rounded another corner that led to the back of the store.

His shoulders dropped, the crossbow in his right hand falling again to his side.

There she was about twenty feet away. She had her arms wrapped around herself and a dead walker lay at her feet.

Beth turned suddenly when she heard him approach, knife raised and ready to strike.

"Oh." She let her hand fall and wiped half-heartedly at her face with the other one.

"It's just you."

She'd been crying. Daryl shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, wondering whether he should be pissed at her for running off like that and screaming to high-heaven or if he should just stay silent.

"What happened?" he settled with, staring at the back of her head.

Beth shrugged.

"I thought," she turned and gestured down at the walker, "it came up on me and I thought, at first, that it was Maggie."

Daryl looked down. Brown, shoulder length hair, dark jeans, dark shirt.

He thought back to the other sign they'd seen that morning.

_Glenn go to Terminus. Maggie._

Sometimes he forgot that Beth had her own struggles. With that lopsided, goofy smile, her naïve optimism, and the bounce in her step. He forgot she'd lost just about everyone too, same as him.

"Let's get your bag, find someplace to camp for the night."

Beth glanced up at him and stepped into place, grateful he didn't say anything about her going off on her own.

"Did you find anything in there?"

He thought briefly about that stupid magazine.

"Naw, nothin'.

…


	6. Together

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to AMC's Walking Dead or any of the characters. I own only my imagination.**

**Summary: Just two people at the end of the world, thrown together, alone together. T rating (for now), during S4, post-prison. BETHYL.**

...

5\. _Together_

…

She thinks he's warming up to her. She thinks he might like having someone there to talk to him but not expect him to say much back. She thinks he's glad he let go of all his demons. Like he's lighter almost. And okay now, with not being alone and all.

She bumps her shoulder with his, grinning up at him wide and big, all teeth, like a crazy person.

"I'm growing on you, aren't I?" She says, eyes squinting hard in the sunlight.

He looks away from her, from that smile. So big and so pretty it kind of hurts to look at straight on. Her hair brushes his arm. He thinks if she never got more than two feet away from him, it wouldn't be the end of the world.

And that kind of thinking makes him nervous.

It's hard to say where it's all coming from. She's not a sister, not a cousin. Not a little kid. He don't wanna kiss her or nothin'. But he likes her here. Likes walking together. He don't know where to start. Or what it means. Or how it all adds up.

To him and her.

"Ain't so bad," is all he says, scouring the trees for movement.

_I remember_, she'd said. _It's what I know_, she'd told him.

"Well, I'm all you got right now. Better get used to me."

That don't sound so hard to do. She don't sound sad about it.

One small, thin arm wraps around one of his. She starts humming some little melody, scaring away all the game. She picks a flower and puts it behind her ear.

He thinks she's crazy.

He thinks maybe he's going crazy, because he don't mind her kind of crazy anymore.

…

**A/n**: Yes, this is post-Still, in case anyone was confused. I didn't want to risk being unoriginal and just rewriting the scene straight from the show. I've seen it done and it' gets old after awhile. Short one this time, but I wrote two chapters tonight and didn't want to string them together.


	7. Gone

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to AMC's Walking Dead or any of the characters. I own only my imagination.**

**Summary: Just two people at the end of the world, thrown together, alone together. T rating (for now), during S4, post-prison. BETHYL.**

**A/n: **Same as last chapter. I'm trying to approach the "Still" and "Alone" scenes with a little more creativity than just copying from the show. I got the idea for this chapter from Tim O'Brien's war novel _The Things They Carried_. It's quite different from the book, but I liked the concept.

…

6\. _Gone_

…

It happens like this:

A lone, white mutt sniffs around the funeral home and Daryl lets him in because Beth asks him to. She feeds him peanut butter off her spoon and wraps her dirty, scrawny arms around him. Daryl tells her she's probably gonna catch fleas but he scratches the mutt behind his ears anyway. They curl up together on the floor, facing each other, in front of the piano with the mutt in-between them. Her blue eyes shine in the soft darkness and he can't force himself to look away even though he thinks he should. Soft fingertips brush his and then her hand is wrapped lightly around his own. Her touch is gentle and firm; it's enough to make it hard for him to breathe. He watches her until her eyelids flutter shut, her breathing deep and even, chest rising in sync with the softly snoring dog. He rubs his thumb against the back of her hand until he falls asleep. In the morning, they decide to keep pursuing Terminus. They stuff their bags with preserved goods and Beth leaves a "thank you" note. As they head out, her little finger curls around his and Daryl doesn't pull away. The mutt trails after them, running in circles around their feet. Daryl thinks this feels like living.

…

None of that actually happens. It's all made up. Don't believe it.

It's the worst kind of story because it gives you hope and tries for beauty without telling you about all the terrible, ugly things.

Here's the real story:

Daryl went to let the dog in because Beth asked him to, but instead of a mutt, he found a herd of walkers and he yelled at Beth to run. When Daryl eventually made it out of the funeral home, he couldn't find Beth. Out of nowhere a black car with a white cross on the back window sped off down the road and Daryl chased after it for hours. All that was left of Beth was the bag of money and jewels he'd collected at the country club. She was gone. Daryl was alone. There was never any dog.

He left the bag.

It was terrible and beautiful at the same time. Her gone. Him chasing.

…

He wanted to give up. Just sit there in the middle of the road until he met his end. He hoped Beth was dead because her being _just gone_ felt worse. He thought he might not mind if Joe and his gang were the ones to do him in.

But he carried on. No, he didn't go searching for Beth; he didn't make any marks on the side of the road in case she was out there tracking him.

_Glenn go to Terminus. Maggie_.

He didn't leave no signs. No clues.

There wasn't any grand romance in missing her. In being gone.

But there was something that did happen to him. There was something.

He didn't feel angry.

He didn't feel anything.

It was like nothing. Like he was gone too. He realized she'd given him hope, something to believe in, without him even knowing it.

Before, back in the beginning, when he had been with her, he had been mad. Angry that they'd lost everything. Angry that after all that time trying to make a home there, he was left with what in the end? Her.

But he'd never thought of quitting before.

Now something about quitting seemed alright with him. Like it'd be an okay way to go. What he really was, was just tired of it all. He didn't want to do it anymore. Survive. Carry on. What was it worth?

_You're gonna miss me so bad when I'm gone, Daryl Dixon_.

And that was it.

Who met the end of the world all alone?

Who wanted to be the Last Man Standing?

The prison seemed years in the past. The prison seemed like nothing.

Beth. Now that's a loss.

Beth.

That was losing everything.

Beth.

…

**A/n: **How do you think it went? Let me know.


	8. Gravity

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to AMC's Walking Dead or any of the characters. I own only my imagination.**

**Summary: Just two people at the end of the world, thrown together, alone together. T rating (for now), during S4, post-prison. BETHYL.**

**A/n**: It's been a while, but I've just graduated university and begun a dramaturgy internship so life's been moving fast. This chapter gets us up to the most recent season's end. The text switches between past and present tense in some instances, but I feel like it works. If it doesn't let me know. You'll see what I mean.

…

7._ Gravity_

…

It feels like a huge weight has been lifted off his shoulders. A lightness envelopes him. He feels like he's floating.

It's strange.

He ain't no poet. Ain't no romantic.

But coming upon Rick, Michonne, and the boy means something.

He don't really know what, but it has to be something.

He's been relieved. Relieved of the burden of walking alone. Of walking dead.

He's tired of running, tired of being left, tired of alone.

Sitting there next to Rick with his back against the car, beat up, torn up, he feels more alive than he has since… before now.

Rick's questions stop him. Pulls him back down.

_I was with Beth_.

…

"Hey, Daryl?"

He nods in the kid's direction, still scanning up ahead. The sheriff's hat bobs into his peripheral vision.

"You think you can teach me how to use your bow sometime?" kid asks looking up at him, one eye squinted from the glare of the sun.

The request stills him, stills his eyes, his breath.

Everything shifts out of focus for a moment; the blur of a blonde head directly in front of him. Pale, thin arms holding the long weapon up, steady, determined.

Daryl blinks. There's nothing but miles of track before his boots. Not a damn thing else in sight.

He drops his arm, turns to kid.

"What, you, gunslinger?"

Kid shrugs and fingers his pistol fondly.

"Might run out of bullets someday."

Daryl starts again, kicks at the gravel in between the wooden slats.

"Might run outta arrows too."

…

He's keeping busy. Being a part of the team. Doing his job. Protecting the group. Following Rick's lead.

It feels like so long ago: those times when he was the one calling most of the shots. Paving the way. Making decisions for him and her.

When he's busy, he's light. Free. Ain't got nothing to worry about but getting the job done. He stays up, stays moving, keeps doing things till his eyes droop shut of their own accord. He drifts off into sleep without ever thinking about anything.

Dreamless.

Weightless.

Free.

He tries not to think about things mostly. At least, the things that ain't easy to think about.

…

He'd known it was a bad idea going into that place. But he also knew that when you found yourself with a family, you also found yourself with responsibilities. Bigger, life-changing, dangerous responsibilities than you ever had before.

It was the risk they took staying together.

They had lived together.

Scavenged together.

Fought together.

In the end everyone has to die alone, but he'd realized that he didn't have to live alone waiting for that day to come.

So he'd known it was a bad idea from the start. But if Maggie was there, if Glenn was there, it was a risk they would take.

Still, when Rick pointed out Glenn's riot gear, Maggie's poncho, and Hershel's watch, he wondered if the risk they took had been for nothing.

They were surrounded by sick people, desperate people, willing to do anything—the unthinkable—to survive.

Yet just a few days back Rick tore a man's throat out to protect his son. Daryl himself had spilled the blood of many men to keep his own safe. He'd do it again too.

Were they really that different from them? Was spilling a man's blood the same as eating his meat and stripping his bones bare of the flesh that had once made him whole?

No.

They weren't the same.

They were a group rooted in defense tactics. Tougher men would spit to that. You wanted to be on top, have control, and take care of your own, you ran the offense.

Smarter men, men like Rick, knew better. He was steady. A wall of brick. The patient hand on your shoulder, holding you back from doing something stupid.

These people here at Terminus played the offense. They lured people in with false promises and then sent them off to their graves. They never gave anyone a chance; they would strike before they were struck.

But the thing about the offense—the thing Rick knew, that Daryl knew—was that even though it came in fast and packed a lot of punch, it was all muscle and no brain.

Daryl's crew was a team built on defense—there was honor to it. Don't fuck with me and we won't fuck with you. They had dealt with a bunch of sonsabitches who thought they'd try it and they'd died regretting it. Offensive players were weak at defense. That's what Rick knew.

He knew that if they were patient long enough waiting in the dark train car, that the people at Terminus would show their soft spot and when they did, their group would latch on and destroy them from the inside out.

That's what they had to do. They had regained too much—Maggie, Glenn, Sasha, Bob—to just lose it all again.

After he walked into the dark car, Daryl's mind was rifling through a long list of profanities. They were up to their knees in shit again. They were drowning in it.

_Yeah, what else is new?_

But then when the doors closed shut behind them and what little light was captured in the small space reflected off of Maggie's inquiring face he went blank. And when Glenn and the others stepped forward, he had no words.

He was lost.

But free.

Weightless. Light as a feather, quiet as a mouse.

He'd known it was a bad idea coming here. That more likely than not, it would come to nothing.

_Wouldn't kill you to have a little faith._

He'd almost lost hope, forgotten about everyone but himself and the long, lonely walk of the dead.

_I know they're out there, Daryl. _

She was right, he thought. And here he was, undeserving and unbelieving, guilty of many sins, blood covering his soul, witnessing a miracle.

And Beth, the tiny girl who had faith and hope and love overflowing in her heart's reserves, she was gone.

The thought of her sucked him back down. Her sister's face turned in their direction, ignorant to what she'd lost, what he'd lost for her, bore down upon him.

He was weighted by gravity all over again.

…

**A/n: **I have a chapter in the works on Beth's whereabouts so don't worry about the fact that she isn't present here. I'll get to that, but I've tried to remain canon up to this point. As always, please reply with your thoughts/suggestions/concerns. I can't know how I'm doing, if you guys won't tell me. :P


	9. Escape

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to AMC's Walking Dead or any of the characters. I own only my imagination.**

**Summary: Just two people at the end of the world, thrown together, alone together. T rating (for now), during S4, post-prison. BETHYL.**

**A/n: Sorry about the wait. I've got another Bethyl in the works now, "The Harvest." Take a look if you're interested.**

…

8\. _Escape_

…

Are you up there somewhere lookin' in on me? Can you see clearly down here through all this mess? Where are you now that I'm lost out here, bein' pulled kickin' and screamin' away from the little company I had left?

God's a fickle friend. One day he's beatin' down the door to get to ya' and the next he's somewhere gone to dinner. He can't be bothered by all this crazy. These crazy times. These crazy people. This comedy of errors.

Is this the flood reborn? Is your rainbow grinning down at us, does your loophole sit in its pot of gold? Is this your sickness claiming our wretched souls?

I remember you. We were friends once. Twirling among daisies in Daddy's fields, singing with the birds, and catching crickets in the moonlight.

Was that little girl me, wearing dresses and hair bows, running around without shoes on?

Who is this now? A dirty body being drug across the diseased, thirsty Earth, torn fingers digging into unfit soil, broken skin spending my life's blood away?

I'll wash myself free of you, cleanse my soul with its own iron aroma. My faith renewed, I am reborn into a woman of the earth. Mother Nature, feed my soul. I will purge this disease from your heaving landscape. To do good unto others until they do no good to me. Eye for an eye. Kill or be killed.

To see no evil, hear no evil, do no evil… unless evil be done to me.

I am not good or kind or fair. I am here … and I will live.

…

I will remember all of it.

The blistering sun on my skin when I woke first, laid out like a carcass, a livin' corpse. The slop thrown out in front of my face, meltin' into the dirt. I lapped at it like a dog, hungry, desperate, deprived. A fist winding around my dirty locks tightly, peelin' away my scalp. Needles stabbin' into my veins, drawin' out my blood and replacin' it with something else. Fingers pryin' open my eyes and one large soulless pit starin' into me.

And again. And again. And again.

_This one's finished._

Finished.

The skin on my knees scraping off against the dirt as they drug me off, back out into that fenced in heat.

Working my bindings off with the jagged bottom of the chain-linked fence, prying it upward, hauling myself under, making my way around to the front, picking up the rock, smashing it against his head, taking his knife, his gun, making my way through to the basement…

_I _thought _I told you _not _to disturb me, Jason._

Raising the gun, aim steady, trigger ready.

_Well, I ain't finished with you yet, Doctor._

Turn, BANG!

I remember everything.

…

Have you given up on me yet? I'm still here. I walk where you're walkin', I breathe when you're breathin'.

Stay off the road, trek through the trees, scavenge quietly, don't get caught, don't be seen. Trust no one.

See the trick is to seem different than you are. If you're small, look big. If you're scared, act fearless. If you care 'bout someone, pretend not to. This is cheating death. This is how we survive.

Where are you, Maggie? Where are you, Rick? Where are you, Daryl? Did you forget about me?

I'm still here, treading softly.

…

"Yo, gotta light?"

The canned green beans clatter to the grimy floor and Beth spins, raising her gun.

"Woah, woah, woah, hold it." His hands fly in the air, a cigarette, forgotten, hangs from his lips.

"I don't even got a gun, kid, promise. Just-just chill, okay?" Should've shot him already. Would've if not for the noise.

She sizes him up. Dirty blond hair cropped unevenly. Slight frame, maybe 5'11". Sun-bleached plaid button-up with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, front hanging open over a dirt-stained white t-shirt. Ripped up jeans fraying over old sneakers.

He doesn't look a day older than twenty-five. There's a beat-up bag resting at his feet. It looks half empty.

For a second she wonders what she must look like to him. Blood-caked and starving with a wild glint in her eyes. She tightens her grip on the gun.

_Don't get stupid on me, girl._

"Where's your group?" a rough, cracked voice bites out. It comes from her.

…


	10. Company

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to AMC's Walking Dead or any of the characters. I own only my imagination.**

**Summary: Just two people at the end of the world, thrown together, alone together. T rating (for now), during S4, post-prison. BETHYL.**

...

9\. _Company_

...

"Usually I don't bother with people anymore," he says casually, kicking up the dirt with his shoes, hands low in his pockets.

Beth grits her teeth and trudges on.

"But then I saw you and there I was, desperate for a smoke, you know? And, well, you didn't look so bad. I thought to myself, _fuck it_."

He'd started following her a few miles back, after she'd told him to kick it once she determined he wasn't a threat and he didn't have any people.

"I've been on my own for a while… Shit, I've been on my own since before these fuckers started biting."

She gets why.

"It's worse now though. Can't trust anybody, they'll rob you blind or, you know, use you as bait or some shit."

She whips around.

"Then why are you followin' after me, I got nothin' for you, I said 'get lost,' didn't I?"

He stops in his tracks, a few paces behind her.

"Well, didn't I?!"

He shrugs, then pulls out a pack of cigarettes, as if unfazed by her aggression.

"Thought I was going crazy there for a while," he takes a long drag and closes his eyes on the exhale, savoring it, "then I saw you. Looked harmless enough."

Beth fingers her blade.

"I could kill you in a second."

The corner of his mouth edges up into a smirk.

"Yeah, I know. But you won't."

She wants to punch him. She really _should _stick him right between the eyes.

"Name's Jerad, J-Rad for short."

Beth snorts but resumes walking. Some thug. A name like J-Rad and gettin' held up by a half-pint girl. Yeah, sounds about right.

She hears his feet scuffing the ground and knows he'd started up again behind her.

"Look, I ain't gonna rob a girl, so you can just relax, you know. Just tired of being on my own, is all. Two crazies are better than one, anyway, or some shit like that."

"Man or woman, it don't matter anymore, _J-Rad_. Out here, we're all just survivin'," she tells him.

He goes quiet for a minute.

"Yeah… I guess you're right."

She's glad when he doesn't say anything else but the silence doesn't last long.

"Hey, you never told me your name."

Sighing, she rubs at a stiff muscle in her neck and ignores him.

To be honest, it's nice, a little, listening to a real person after all this time.

She'd almost forgotten what it was like.

Even if he did rob her blind or slit her throat, at least he wasn't just another voice inside her head.

This kind of thinking is dangerous. You can't trust anyone. Most important truth is not to take risks. Can't trust anyone. Can't just hand your life away.

She wonders if he's got any real skills. Can he hunt? Probably not.

But she's starved.

For food. For the harmless sounds made by another human being. For company.

Can't trust anyone.

She lets him make camp with her anyway.

She doesn't sleep the whole night.

…

Are you out there somewhere missin' me? Are you scared out there, not knowing where I am? Do your feet ache from that steady walking, from findin' me?

Mine ache. I walk, steady, lookin' for you.

Careful, quiet, quickly, I come for you.

…

Her knife is pressed up against his adam's apple, he swallows.

"You were thrashing around in your sleep, had to wake you up before _you _woke the biters."

Piercing blue eyes meet green ones.

Bringing herself up on her elbows, Beth pulls back her blade and turns from him.

It'd been over two weeks since Jerad followed her out of that deserted market and he'd finally convinced her to take watch in shifts.

Several times she had regretted letting him tag along and other times she thought about leaving him in the night but the thought of walkers stumbling upon him while he slept kept her honest.

He knew almost nothing about her or where she'd been before. For the most part he didn't ask. Yet it was strange to think that he was probably the only person in the world who knew her now. Who knows her as she is now—cold, distant, quiet, dark.

That sweet Beth singing at the day's end—where did she go? Small Beth, young Beth, happy Beth, mother Beth, sister Beth, daughter Beth, useless Beth… Daryl's Beth. She was gone. She had left without meaning to and she couldn't go back. Not to who she was before, before the funeral home, before the doctor, before the hands, before the prison.

If they found her, would they know her now? Would they box her away in that same protective space? _Sweet Beth. Quiet Beth. Cute Beth. Weak Beth_.

Would they recognize her?

Did she recognize herself?

Maybe Daryl had been onto something about staying in that funeral home. If you stayed, if you were never found, they'd still remember you, they'd still know you. But if you went back, if they found you, they wouldn't recognize you. Not without knowing the After.

_Strong Beth. Hard Beth. Dark Beth. Hurt Beth. _

There's no going back.

…


	11. Siren Song

**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to AMC's Walking Dead or any of the characters. I own only my imagination.**

**Summary: Just two people at the end of the world, thrown together, alone together. T rating (for now), during S4, post-prison. BETHYL.**

**A/n: **One a bit longer this time. Enjoy. Also, a tiny, tiny amount of Greek mythology and The Beatles here.

…

10\. _Siren Song_

...

She hears Maggie's sweet voice singing softly before she sees her.

_But of all these friends and lovers…_

Her heart explodes. Thumping wildly under her sternum, the blood pulsing loudly in her ears, it is the only sound she can make sense of.

_There is no one compares with you, and these memories lose their meaning…_

She's there, just ahead, walking that narrow desert-dry path. Those beautiful brunette locks almost to her shoulders, a figure—Glenn—limping beside her.

You were lost, but now you're found. You were blind, but now you see.

Her pack lands heavily, stirring up the dirt, and the pair, startled, turn-

She chokes in air, having forgotten at one point to breathe, and suddenly realizes she's crying, the tears pouring over her cheeks in waves. _I was lookin' for you. I searched._

"Beth!" that beautiful voice utters, hoarse with disbelief.

_When I think of love as something new…_

They sob together, standing in the middle of the road, clutching each other tightly with chipped fingernails digging into the other's flesh. Through the blur she makes out Glenn's grinning face. They cry, standing there, for what seems like hours.

Then Carl, Rick, Michonne, sweet Judith, and still more, all back at the camp. All waiting there.

Her cheeks hurt from smiling and her eyes are heavy with water. This is paradise. The scorching heat is perfect on her skin. The sun's blinding light a soft glow in the wake of this reunion. _Here I am. Here I am. I am here with you._

The old familiar feeling of a melody bubbling in her throat resurfaces. For the first time in months, she has the urge to sing.

_All these places have their moments, with friends and lovers I still can recall. Some are dead and some are living, in my life I've loved them all. _

The water in the pond is crystal clear. They float on their backs, hair spread out underneath them and talk about nothing. The chirping of mating birds and the gentle swaying of cattails in the breeze give the place a sense of whimsy.

"I know it's silly, but I sure am glad you picked up these bikinis on the last run." She says to Maggie, "it's nice to feel like a normal girl for once."

Maggie splashes her, "You, normal? Please."

They giggle and flick water at each other before going quiet and staring up again at the clouds.

"What happened out there, Bethy?" Maggie is serious now, her voice low.

Beth's nose crinkles, "Out where?" The sky goes dark.

"Why aren't you dead, yet?"

Her head turns sharply in her shock, but Maggie is no longer there beside her. Mud swirls around her feet as the water sloshes against her legs while she stands and twists around, looking for her sister. She was just here.

Instead the sound of an arrow plunking hard into a tree trunk slices through the air.

Knee-deep in the chilly water, she turns to the shore and sucks in a breath. There he is.

Daryl sits casually, busy cleaning a squirrel. His eyes are steady on her and just as she opens her mouth to speak, to call out to him, to tell him… everything, Beth remembers the bikini. It's just her luck, him seeing her all immodest like, splashing around like some dumb college bitch. Embarrassed, a flush creeps up her neck and she moves her arms around her waist awkwardly.

"Whatchu doin' out there? Wake up, girl." His rough voice is familiar, gentle almost.

Her eyebrows scrunch together, "what?"

The water feels thicker now, like sludge. She pulls herself toward the shore, trembling as something cold brushes her ankle. The mud swirling between her toes turns a dark, blood red.

Daryl wipes his blade on the thigh of his jeans then lifts his eyes, stares into her.

"Wake up."

…

"Wake up, wake up!"

The earth is shaking and Jerad's face looms over hers. Those familiar feral growls sound close. It takes a lifetime for her eyes to adjust to the darkness she's been plunged back into. The trees multiple and the stars blink like Christmas lights before she realizes that he has a hold of her shoulders and is shaking her back-and-forth.

"We gotta scram, come on, kid!"

Beth pulls herself out of his grasp, "A pack?" she questions.

He lifts her to her feet, "I don't know how many, but I ain't waiting here to find out."

They run through the trees for miles, just until the light of dawn begins to filter through the forest.

As they stop to dig into a breakfast of Vienna sausages, the dream comes back to her.

Later, she forgets what song it was that Maggie was singing. It's better, she concludes eventually, not to remember.

…

Turns out Jerad is good for some things. When they scavenge he'll disappear and return with the wildest things. Potatoes, coke, medical supplies.

She doesn't think to ask him until he doesn't return for almost two days. She leaves him but packs up camp in a rage, angry with herself for wanting to look for him. For wanting the company.

When he comes upon her the second night, she corners him.

"I ain't a goddamn Super 8. You a rat or somethin'?" Beth spits out and whirls around, her knife clenched in a death-grip.

He shrugs, buries his hands in his pockets, and his eyes flit around nervously.

She grits her teeth, "You can either grab your crap and hit the road or tell me what the hell you're doin'."

A bag lands at her feet, food and supplies spill out onto the dirt. Unfazed, Jerad tosses her a ripe apple that she fumbles to catch before biting into his own and settling down at the base of a tree.

"I was a user before the shit hit the fan."

Her guarded expression remains, but she sits anyway. She doesn't really know what that means.

"You know, drugs and shit," he continues, giving her a look that says are-you-for-real. "Was high as fuck when the zombies started multiplying, don't even know how I made it through the night."

Anyway, when I was doping I had to learn to be real sneaky and quiet. To steal. To hide from the dealers, and whatever. Don't worry, I don't do that shit anymore," He blurts out quickly, almost annoyed, as he sees her eyebrows raise.

"I thought withdrawal was bad before, but during a fucking zombie apocalypse, now that's hell."

"What's your point?" Beth cuts in sharply, more suspicious now than before he'd began telling her his crap life-story.

"I just know where to find shit," he says then hesitates, "and people."

It takes a minute, but then it dawns on her, "You've been stealing all this from survivors?"

…

Sirens make the best lovers. For each drifter, they tailor their song carefully, delicately, intricately. For each lone walker lured cunningly away from his senses by a lustrous harmony crafted to perfection, a beast—his own beasts—waits to devour him.

Lovers, like sirens, devour you. All you love will pass away into nothing.

Don't get your hopes up. Forget optimism. Forget meaning. There is only surviving. Smack, coke, vodka—those were Jerad's sirens. Hope, love, happiness, beauty—these are Beth's.

Who are you when you're stripped bare, when your flesh has been scoured and all that you once knew in this life has gone away?

What's left of you? A soul? How's it made, does it make us different or the same? What's it look like when its vessel erodes down and drifts on, sinks into nothing?

Had she been someone's siren? Singing her songs and filling them with hope, giving them comfort, making them vulnerable? Did her melodies lure one of her people to that fatal trap?

She presses her palms hard into eyes, pressing until her vision goes white. Crouched in on herself, fetal and withered, broken whimpered cries shake her body. Her mouth stretches with that uncontrollable grin-of-grief, the noise escapes her. Finally, she cries.

They tracked the survivors. None of them were hers.

Jerad, for his part, leaves the last bit of her dignity intact and looks away.

…

**A/n: **Let me know what you think! Don't worry, plot will enter Bethyl-verse eventually.


	12. Mother Earth, Father Time

**A/n**: Thanks to all my reviewers and to those who added this to their favorite/follow list. I appreciate the support. Slight reunion in this chapter, but you'll have to make a guess.

…

11\. _Mother Earth, Father Time_

…

Man's law leaves no imprint on Mother Nature. Justice is his idea that time weathers away into nothing. What is justice? Righting wrongs, fulfilling karma? Preaching morals and laws and meaning and consciousness?

The earth has only one rule: all's fair in life and death.

…

Most of the days that passed were the same. Except for the weather. The seasons shifted, the air got cooler, dew moistened the earth in the mornings, leaves changed colors and the trees began to shed them. But even this was constant, the weather, going about its business like the world wasn't ending. It was the steady hand pressing down on desperate creatures.

Maybe before Beth would have found hope in that knowledge. Hope that all wasn't lost. That they would hold out, like the earth, and bear this like an unrelenting winter until spring arrived in time to save them. That this would pass, like all things. Hope that among disease there could be life and strength and endurance.

Now nature, she felt, in its apathy and indifference, had turned its back on them. On her. Yet, still, she, with Jerad, continued on torn apart, exhausted, weak, but indifferent too.

She spoke about finding a place to hold up for the months ahead. He mentioned Terminus, vaguely implying that he was with her for the long-haul in the search for her group, if she wanted him to be, but was almost relieved when she turned away the offer.

_We ain't goin' there… Can't you see we can't trust nobody? _Beth remembered Daryl saying so long ago.

She was done searching and Jerad didn't fit in groups.

It was odd the way he reminded her of Daryl sometimes, more comfortable on his own, doing his own thing, strong and clever enough to look out for himself. She didn't like to think about that too much. She hated it, but the memories still stung if she picked at them. She wanted only for the scabs to heal over and disappear, like none of itever happened.

But, Beth thought, they were different too. Daryl was the lone wolf, Jerad was more of… a stray dog.

Sometimes their eyes met, and she swore she could see right through him, right down into his soul. He had no secrets, he was unashamed. He knew what it was to be beaten and knew how to bite back, but he had no patience for vengeance. He had time only to find the next meal, the next fix, or maybe just to wait for some other poor soul, gentle, or else dumb, enough to take his sorry self in.

He had been scavenging the streets long before this mess, lonely, searching for another lonely person to take him in so they could be lonely together.

Apparently she was that unfortunate other.

Beth supposed he was charming in his own way, with boyish looks, dirty blond hair flopping down into his eyes, his jaw dusted with a patchy scruff, a crooked grin on his face and his hands shoved casually in his pockets.

Jerad was that crazy person you met every once in a while, had no worries even though he was perpetually down on his luck. If she lined up every one of his family members and shot them all in the back of the head she wondered if his lips would still quirk up into that crooked smile. It made her hate him.

…

"Pup just wants a lil' something to eat, huh?" he crooned cheerfully and scratched the animal behind one of its ears.

They'd been through this before when it came to the random animals Jerad somehow coaxed out of their hiding places. She'd kick up a fuss and demand they keep their food to themselves but he'd just look up at her grimly, still petting the bony creatures before turning back and feeding them his own dinner for the night.

"Whatever," she'd turn away, trying to make like she'd won, but still feel guilty all the same.

If they were fed, they'd start to follow after them and they'd have to continue providing food for all of them, she reasoned. But giving away meals to strays is something Daddy would have done, and Jerad's steady look, almost of disappointment in her, hurt._ Damn-it_. It was something the old Beth would have done. And Daryl would have scolded her too. That she knew.

Now, watching the gray German Shepard that sat on its haunches panting in front of Jerad, she knew she'd lost. 'Sides for some reason the critters never stuck around. Maybe the walkers scared them off.

"Here," she tossed over a can of Vienna sausages and he caught it, surprise showing on his face, "I hate those things," she finished lamely and turned away, looking off into the night.

They really did taste awful.

…

She found herself cornered. Jerad nowhere in sight. The grimy man in front of her lurched forward with a leer, his stare revealing malicious intent.

"Found ourselves a pretty girly, didn't we, Frankie?"

Another man, closing in on her from the left, chuckled darkly and raised his gun in warning.

"Too right we did, an' a young'un," the man, Frankie, answered and then spoke to her, "now don't you go runnin' off, we'll treat you _reeeeal_ good." His yellowed teeth were crooked and some looked to be rotting.

Panic crept up her throat but Beth swallowed it down harshly. They were big and probably had not one single moral bone in their bodies, but they looked dumb too.

_Think quickly, quickly!_

The one in front of her had a knife hanging loosely from one hand as he crept forward, the one to her left a gun, but he held it carelessly.

Men like this, she thought, are used to preying on the weak. She wasn't a threat to them. As long as she remained harmless, vulnerable, and feeble, she could outsmart them. The warmth of the blade pressing into the skin of her back just below her waistband, where she had stowed it earlier, gave her the comfort she needed.

She began to cry, "I've been a-alone for so l-long," it came out stuttered and tears dripped down her cheeks.

The man in front of her grinned, "Aw, sugar, you won't be alone no more, can guarantee that."

It happened quickly. The one to her left lowered his gun as he went to laugh at her, mentioning making an exchange of sorts. She sniffled, biding her time till they got closer, and then saw him. Jerad crouched down behind one of the aisles, staring intently at her, his own gun aimed steady at the brute in front of her. Their eyes met and he lifted a finger to his lips slowly.

She turned, lips still trembling, accepting the man's offer, and as soon as she heard the deafening sound of the gunshot, she reached behind her and grasped her blade. Pulling it out quickly, she leapt to the man who'd whirled his gun to face Jerad and sunk her knife deep into the crevice behind his ear. A spray of blood soaked one half of her face as she jerked the blade out and let the body slump to the floor, an unbelieving expression frozen on his face as he clutched at the wound.

She watched him lay there and gurgle, mesmerized, tracing the red liquid as it spilled out around the body. She watched him until the last whispered breath passed his lips and he went still completely.

Did he wake up thinking that today could be the day—his last one? Or did the thought never even cross his mind? Had he thrived in this world, no rules, no policing, until he met his end here?

Beth thought, for a second, it might be justice, but discarded the idea quickly. No. There was no justice in this; all life, good or bad, deserving or undeserving, was fair game for death.

Jerad had already searched the pockets of the man he'd killed when Beth made her way over to him and started out the door.

He wasn't so bad, she supposed, watching him grab his pack and shuffle out toward her, his pants sagging a little as he took up his usual stance and shoved one of his hands into a pocket, seemingly unfazed by the blood smattered across her.

They marched on, like it was just another day. Her bare arm brushed against his.

She glanced up at him, then back to the road, "thanks," she muttered.

"Those bitches had it coming," was all he said and struck by the casual, aloof tone she'd grown accustomed to, Beth found herself suddenly grinning. He grinned back, looking down at her, and then they were both laughing, unable to stop it.

"We live to see another GODDAMN day!" Jerad shouted, throwing his arms into the air dramatically.

Beth laughed, doubled over and face plastered with dried blood, until she fell over into the dirt, clutching her sides.

Another day meant nothing, it meant everything and nothing.

…

Like all the other hungry critters, the gray dog left them in peace after the night she gave away their coveted Vienna sausages. But unlike the others, he appeared off and on again every other few days or so, a bit behind them. Watching but not really interested in sniffing out any more of their food no matter how long Jerad spent trying to persuade the animal to enter camp with them. Beth joked it was the sausages, Jerad said it felt odd. Like some kind of omen.

But she didn't really believe in all that anymore and she told him so. Of course, he just smiled at her, as was his custom, and shrugged his shoulders as he turned from the dog.

Without really meaning to one afternoon, she begins talking.

"I used to sing." The words feel clunky and simple coming out. They sound unimportant and she wants them to be, but they aren't. Not to her.

"It was different then," she stops, "-_I _was different."

Jerad jabs a long stick into the fire, pushing the burning wood around just to do something with his hands.

"Yeah?" he says, almost like a question, assuring her that he's listening, she can go on if she wants to but she doesn't have to. He won't ask her to sing. She doesn't want to.

It's odd, them talking. Really talking.

"I used to have faith we'd come out of this. That we could still be good. That people could still be good."

The stick scraps slowly at the ash.

"There'd be a cure or somethin' or other survivors out there, comin' together, startin' over fresh." It's funny now, saying it all aloud. The farm, the governor, the prison, the doctor, the men. She laughs dryly.

"Silly, that's what I was."

He looks up at her then, "Faith," he says, "it's hard to come by these days."

Beth nods, agreeing silently.

"Was never easy before either. Not for me at least. Always been shit to deal with. Everyone's got something to complain about."

She looks across at him, his face gleaming with sweat and a reflective expression on his face, and remembers the careful look he gave her when he put his finger to his lips, shushing her, and then shot that man in the back of the head without batting an eye.

He's good. Suddenly she's glad he followed after her, she's glad she's not alone and maybe she's okay with that.

"I never listened to rap music before," she blurts out after they'd been silent for a while.

Smiling slowly, still stirring up the fire, he catches on.

"I never frenched a dude before."

"That's cheating."

"All's fair, baby," he laughs out.

Later, when she's on watch, him on his back next to her, she'll look over at him and think of Daryl.

His hair is soft when she runs her fingers through it. It surprises her.

_I don't think the good ones survive_.

…

They don't.

They hear voices in the woods one day and stay quiet, crouched and hidden behind brambles and trees. No one ever shows but they take off when night falls, trying to put some distance between them and the direction the voices came from.

For two days they stay quiet, talking in murmurs.

The German Shepard haunts them and it makes Beth sick. She wonders if he belongs to those people they heard. Did he lead them here, like before, in the funeral home?

Jerad doesn't think so, but he tries to shoo it anyway. He refers to it affectionately as 'Dog,' and Beth rolls her eyes. Original, she thinks, but smiles.

Another round of gunshots wake her up one morning, and she jerks back, knocking into Jerad, who had fallen asleep against a tree on watch. Dog sits less than two feet from her, whining and pawing at the ground.

She elbows Jerad awake and motions for him to be quiet.

"_Gunshots again_," she mouths to him. "_Closer_."

His eyes widen, but he says nothing, just shifts on his pack and slowly comes to a stand. Dog springs to its hind legs and scratches at Jerad's chest, emitting a high whimper.

Holding their breath, they wait. The sounds reach them before they see them—the hungry, spitting growls they're used to.

Beth grabs his arm and points—walkers, lots, are smashing their way toward them.

There are too many to take on just the two of them comfortably, and it'd be foolish to draw attention to themselves. They can outrun them, if they go now.

Taking Jerad's hand, Beth begins to run in the opposite direction, "Let's go!"

Seconds later Jerad skids to a halt, turning her to face him.

"Which direction did those shots come from?" He pants, glancing around nervously.

Wait.

"I-I'm not sure. Probably from this way, biters probably heard 'em too,"

Where do they go? Are they running straight into the hands of another enemy?

They spend a frantic minute catching their breath, assessing the space around them. The walkers have heard them, are closer now. Beth tightens her grip on the straps of her bag, ready to make a decision before she sees it, between the trees over his shoulder—deliberate movement. Three, four people, maybe more; they are just far enough away that they haven't been noticed.

"Mother_fucker_," Jerad mutters after turning his head in the direction of her gaze.

Suddenly he pulls her to the left and they veer off in that direction, trying to cut between the walkers and the survivors.

But it's all fair in zombie land.

In front of them more spill out from between the trees and snarl toward them with arms reaching out to block their path.

Shit. They turn back, no choice but to risk the other direction. Biters surrounding them, gaining ground, getting closer. Can't tell which heavy steps are walkers or humans.

Jerad shoots off his gun, slanting away from her.

"What are you _doing?_" she screeches.

"Fucking run!" he takes down another four walkers as the gunshots draw them toward him.

"Stop!"

She's frantic. He's no hero. Don't play the hero. That's a rule. That's how you survive.

Shots fire from behind her not too far away, not from Jerad.

"Run!" He shouts, red in the face as he attempts to draw them away.

Beth lunges forward, slamming her knife into the head of the nearest walker.

"I ain't leavin' you, shithead!"

Someone's crashing through the woods behind them, someone faster than the walkers.

This is it, she thinks. This is it.

She hears her heart beating in her ears to the pace of the footsteps behind her.

Surrounded, she watches in horror as jaws clamp down on tender human flesh before they are ripped apart point blank, biter guts exploding in the air.

…

The moment plays out in utter silence. No slow motion, but it feels like forever. Nothing like a movie, but nothing like real life.

The scream erupts from her mouth without her realizing it, high and shrill, his name drawn out in terror.

It sounds like disbelief. It sounds like fear. It sounds like blood vessels popping. It sounds like hands wrapped around her throat, crushing her windpipe. It sounds like _don't leave me._ _Not you. Not now. Not ever._

"Beth," he breathes out. Red pouring from his neck. Is this the first time he's ever called her by name?

She's seen this before. It's nothing new. Death is a constant. A custom. A guarantee, eventually.

Knowing this doesn't make it easier.

The walkers blur into the landscape as she falls on her knees beside him and presses a hand to the wound at his neck. Mouth agape, she stares down at him.

"I-I…no. No." The stuttered words come from her in a whisper.

Shiny green eyes gaze up at her, into her.

_I don't know you. Who are you to me? You're nobody. Stop doing this. You're nothing._

"Do it quick for me." He sounds calm but slow, labored breathing betrays him.

_Quick. Put you out of your misery. Like a dog. Quick. Like a dog. Like a nobody._

"I-I can sing," she gets out miserably.

"Yeah?" It's a question, his lips quirk up into that crooked smile, the one she hates.

So she sings. Soft and sweet, but still holding her hand to his neck with red spilling out between her fingers. Soft and sweet and sad she sings to him, looking into his eyes.

_I'm here. This can end here. It's alright. _

Soft and sweet and sad she sings until his face drains of color and his chest under her becomes still.

She clenches her blade, raises it, and plunges it down into his head.

All's fair. Even to the good ones.

…

She doesn't realize the walkers are quiet until she hears the click of a gun being cocked behind her.

The body lies before her still and stretched out. Silent, slayed walkers litter the space around her too.

Letting out a slow, steady breath, Beth closes her eyes and waits. Somewhere behind her multiple sets of footsteps race up and close in on her.

_I'm ready now. I can go._

"Wait! Don't shoot, don't shoot! She's ours—she's one of ours!"

Her eyes fly open. That voice, she knows, belongs to Rick.

…

**A/n: **Got out way more than I expected here. Poor Jerad. I always imagined him affectionately as a calmer Jesse Pinkman sort of guy. Looks like someone's caught up to Beth too. Let me know your thoughts.


	13. Onward

**A/n: **I keep hearing a weird Sin City voice-over when I read Daryl's thoughts back to myself. Ignore it and read as you please. All mistakes are mine.

…

12\. _Onward_

**TERMINUS **_some weeks ago_

…

They got out. But not for long. Crazies just kept on comin', cornin' 'em. Like they could sniff 'em out. Couldn't go no where without bein' shot. Without losin' everyone. They surrendered. Daryl thought they were getting awful used to doing that these days.

Then they'd taken 'em off to the slaughtering trough anyway. What kind of shit is that? Crazy fucks. They shoulda just let themselves be shot. Least they wouldn't have to suffer through bein' gutted an' carved up alive.

He's got to hand it to Bob, wino is shapin' up at the last second, savin' their skins in the nick of time.

Washington's a joke. They all know the geek is full of it, but it bought 'em more time, so he can't complain too much.

Rick was able to cut a deal with the crazies. We find our people, keep our people, carry on to Washington as allies, or end up stuffed like Thanksgiving turkey.

They all know no matter what that shit ain't happening.

…

"How many people are we talking about," Gareth asks, eyeing Rick.

Rick glances at Carl, then briefly at Maggie, before answering him.

"Five or so, but they'll probably be together. My daughter," he almost chokes on that, "Judith, she's still a baby, two other little girls, our friend Tyrese, and Beth, Maggie's sister." There's a tiny desperate note to his voice.

Gareth clasps his hands together behind his back, contemplating.

"We don't even know how long it'll take to find them, we can't be sure they're even still alive. And a baby…" He tisks but his voice is calm, it never betrays anything.

"You said so yourself," Rick continues, "you know these parts better than anyone. You've heard of the prison. You've got people. You know where the other camps are. Daryl, here, Beth was alive last he saw her. Picked up by someone with a stash around here. Lookin' for people. Trappin' 'em. I'm willing to bet you know who those people are."

The young leader's back is to them, but his armed guards face them, unmoving and devoted.

"You know, I might know something, I might," he says, head tilted up to the ceiling, "but that's a lot of risk you're asking me to take. Why do all that, go through all that trouble, when we're doing fine here ourselves." He gestures to them, caught and defenseless, as if proving his point.

Resisting the urge to run his hand through his hair, annoyed, Rick presses forward, "Cause you can't keep on like this and you know it. There's more walkers than there are people out here. And that-this-whatever this is, it ain't living and it won't sustain you. We have to rebuild. We can _do_ this. We can get to Washington. To the camps there, work on the cure. Start over. You need us to do that and we aren't leaving without our people. So I'm not asking you to take risks for us to make it happen. I'm demanding it."

He hears the nervous shuffle of the group behind him, knows they think he's gone too far, but he keeps his gaze firm, steady on the man in front of him who now turns to face him.

It feels like minutes go by before he finally speaks.

"Alright, cowboy," Gareth decides, "We'll get you your people, you get us to Washington, we see if it all pans out. But remember this—you're in my town, you need my help. I'm the sheriff here and you're the deputy."

It's a dangerous game, but they breathe. They have time. Not much, but more than they could've had.

…

Maggie doesn't ask him about Beth, not really. One brief moment she asks "she alive," all quiet like and he shrugs "last I saw" honest like. She breathes out, her eyes looking ahead, past him, but not seeing anything.

He wonders if this is the first time, if when Rick said her name back there, if that was the first time she'd taken a moment to think of her sister… of Beth.

Daryl doesn't like hearing her name, he doesn't like thinking it.

But sometimes he tortures himself with it. _Beth. Beth. Beth. Beth. _He'll repeat in his head, mouthing the name in the dark, the tip of his tongue rising to tap against the roof of his mouth with his lips sealed as his thoughts curl around the letters. His gut clenches every time, twisting and squeezing inside him. He hates to remember but he can't stop. He imagines things, conversations between them, only really with just himself.

Where'd you go?

_Away._

You comin' back?

_I can't, Daryl._

M'm, can't or won't?

_I don't know._

You alive?

_I'm not as strong as you. I didn't have enough time._

You dead then?

_Probably._

But now they're looking for her, a promise made by Rick on behalf of Maggie, on behalf of the group, on behalf of more time and he doesn't want to look for her. Daryl can't find her. Not hurt, messed up by fuckers out there like Joe or Terminus, and not dead, a roaming corpse with a stringy gold braid coming right for him and straight into his arrow. Life ain't fair, it don't hand out happy endings and good karma.

Not knowing, that's bad enough, but knowing, given the options, well, that'd be worse.

…

"Where're we headed?" Rick asks Gareth before they start out again one morning.

He just motions them forward with his gun before answering evenly, "A group we trade with."

Abraham's eyebrows shoot up and he shares a look with Daryl, both of them wondering the same thing. Trade what? Human meat?

But Gareth answers this too, a small smile at his lips and a flat expression on his face, "they clean up the walkers in exchange for supplies—food, water, medicine, clothing. They're not the most civilized group of people, but they get the job done."

Abraham snorts at that and both Rick and Maggie glance sideways at him, a firm reminder to shut-the-fuck-up-please. It seems ironic that this group could be any worse than Terminus, a kind of death camp, and that Gareth, to some degree, considers himself and his own people 'civilized.'

But the young Hitler simply smiles again, "this group and the man they follow, they have no patience, no mercy, no consideration. They don't care about a cure. They only care about profit. The trade they offer is their only kindness, more a necessity for us. Fuck with them and you're already dead."

He says this all as if to remind them of why they're still alive, why they're out here in the woods risking their necks for lost people instead of sitting in a box car and having their stumps gnawed on from time-to-time.

"And that's where we're headed? To those people?" Eugene, who rarely speaks other than to ramble off something utterly nonsensical and inane, questions nervously.

Gareth's lips twitch.

"Of course."

The idea that there could be people out there worse than Gareth and Terminus sends a chill through the rest of the group and they remain silent after that, contemplating. The terror of the Governor seems like child's play now.

Daryl's knuckles are white from his grip on the crossbow.

He hopes they don't find her. He hopes they never see her again. Beth.

Up ahead of him, Maggie hates herself as she prays for the exact same thing.

…

**A/n: **Switching it up to jump to what's been up with Daryl. I don't actively read the Comics so I'm loosely basing the second group mentioned by Gareth on Negan and the Saviors. Don't kill me, we're AU at this point.


	14. Survivors

13\. _Survivors_

...

There's a kind of solidarity in these people that Gareth hasn't seen in a long time and hasn't even felt in himself for a while. It surprises him, to be honest. That they've lasted this long, torn-up, beaten and bruised but still as together as they can be, still holding out for something better. The deputy and his gang, they're soft. How they've managed to remain soft, to avoid doing things unspeakable, he hasn't worked out yet. Or do they have secrets too, secrets he hasn't gotten out of them, might never get out of them?

It's hard to believe they'd still be so naïve about this brave new world otherwise.

We've all done things, he muses. Things that change a person irrevocably, things that scar the human spirit.

That's it, Gareth supposes. Some scars are trenches deep below the surface. Some scars can't be seen.

…

For miles they trudge. For days they keep at it. No sign of any living creature. Young Hitler leading them on into the unknown. He'd only agree to help them find survivors if they left half of their group at Terminus—Bob, Sasha, Glenn, Michonne, Abraham, Tara. Maggie was, well they all were, loath to agree, but they had no choice in the end. Prisoners have very few bargaining chips to use and they'd given up just about all of theirs.

Still, they can figure it out, Daryl knows, now that she's shown him what it means to have faith. They can live with honor, dignity, and purpose even though sometimes it feels like living minute-by-minute. It's a way of life he's never known before, but one he wants.

It _kills _him to want it.

The old, bitter soul inside of him figures that for some joke of a reason she can't make it with them. What good's being good when you get nothing for it? What's Beth got? What's she got for all she's done, for all she _believed _in?

He feels like a jackass when he remembers that he'd mocked her and shook her silly for her innocent naivety in thinking everything was gonna work out alright and they'd all be reunited. Here he is. Reunited. Rick, Carl, and Maggie, all here together. All here together except for her.

That's a laugh.

Living together without Beth.

What good's faith? It can't be trusted. It ain't real.

…

"I gave up on her before I even realized it."

Daryl glances at her dark form from the corner of his eye. After they'd snuffed out the fire, Maggie had come to sit beside him. He'd kept waiting for her to say something for what felt like hours—to accuse him, blame him, or worse, start blubbering—but she didn't say a word, just sat there with him. Until now.

He turns back to his blade and continues swiping it against the whetstone rhythmically.

"All I could think about was finding Glenn. I couldn't lose him too. Not after Daddy."

It's an explanation of sorts and he don't know why she feels the need to explain herself to him of all people. But he remembers Beth—her shoulders hunched and shaking as she stood over a corpse that looked too much like her sister, her resolute gaze on the Terminus map, with no trace of anger, just relief that Maggie was still out there. He remembers that she never forgot about her.

The tension radiates off Maggie in waves as she sits, struggling with what to say next. She twists the wedding band on her finger, turning it around and around and around. Daryl drags his knife across the stone, the steady scrape against it hiding the sound of their breathing.

"I didn't think about Beth. I didn't want to consider, well, the worst. I tried-_wanted_-to forget."

He's quiet, doesn't say anything, doesn't know what to say. Really he just wants her to stop talking.

Her hand clamping down around his wrist, stilling his movement, has him turning to stare at her. Brave under the cover of the darkness, her eyes lock onto his and give him a look almost painful.

"I just wanted to thank you."

Her grip on his arm is tight, feels desperate almost, like if she lets go she won't get out what she needs to say, like if she lets go no one else will talk about it—her, Beth.

"For what?" is all he says, still staring at her, wanting not to.

"For not givin' up on her. For not forgettin'." She looks at him another minute and then she's gone. Moving off to another side of the camp and disappearing into the night.

_You got it wrong_, he thinks, _I did, I gave up_, he wants to say.

Instead he lifts his hand and brings the blade back down on the whetstone.

…

The shrill sound of a baby crying is loud in the early morning, but they're on their feet in seconds. With no regard for stealth or biters or whoever the fuck is out there, Rick and Carl take off with Daryl and Maggie close on their heels cursing. Eugene lags behind as usual.

"Judith!" Carl cries out hopefully, half to his father and half in crazed excitement. Gareth and his men rush after them in an outrage. Who do they think is in charge here?

They crash out of the cover of the wood and into a clearing where an old, rusted-over silo sits surrounded by ten or so snarling biters.

There's no question about it, no hesitation. They're going to rush in there and take out as many as they can in hopes of finding that baby, their ass-kicker.

Gareth's false-apologetic shout "there's too many" falls on deaf ears as they charge off and draw the walkers away from the silo.

And when it's done, hope blooms bright for all of them despite the chill of the fall morning. Tyrese, Carol, and an underfed, but relatively healthy baby emerge from the silo, filthy, but unharmed.

Standing away, Gareth watches them.

This is a family. A family of survivors. The deputy, crying over his child, wanting to look strong in front of the strangers, but unable to contain himself. The redneck bowman, shifting the old woman into an awkward but heartfelt embrace. The dark-haired warrior, grinning down at the babe and squeezing the dark giant to her.

They are soft, but dependable. They remind him of his own family. His own survivors.

He thinks, if worse comes to worse, he may even feel an inkling of regret if he is forced to dispose of them.

But in the end, he will do what needs to be done.

…

Later, after the excitement has died down and they settle in for the night, a feral-looking dog sniffs around their camp, startling one of Gareth's men on watch. He kicks at it and it trots off.

But from a distance, the grey Shepard watches.

…

**A/n: **Big things are coming soon. Overall, I'm happy with this so far, although the fic could do with some revising. I'm just happy I've written so much for my first real chapter story. Please send me your thoughts if you feel so inclined to.


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